hispaniola

by Steven J. Serafiani

I remember tearing at the flesh of a minneola,
piece after piece till it was clean,
piled them at my feet,
sat on a wicker chair on a mesh of slats,
on a balcony on a third floor,
I was alone,
she had just left,
left me,
the sky was clear that day,
the sun graceful,
the rustling frawns of the sabal palms,
I ate a wedge at a time,
let the juice splash on my tongue,
chewed with a reverence,
a gecko crawled near my foot,
bare,
for the first time in several months,
several years,
I just did not give a shit.